


Everyday Thing

by Holde_Maid



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen, inner monologue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-09 00:30:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6882052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holde_Maid/pseuds/Holde_Maid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos' Musings</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everyday Thing

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Prepare to enter Methos' head. A little. Anyway, he belongs to the universes of Highlander: The Series, of which I own NO part whatsoever. Davis/Panzer do. Of course, I'm not making any money by writing this.
> 
> Thanks to Mary aka crazy4rog at LJ for giving the story a read-through and softening down my obsession with hyphens.  
> :-D

Round and innocent, the pomegranate sat on a small plate in front of him.

Pomegranate. Like Methos himself, the fruit had changed its name often. He knew words for it that had been long forgotten. And in ancient times, when he had needed a kingly gift, it had served him well.

It had been his introduction to the Dalai Lama, at a time when the Dalai Lama had still had real, palpable power. It had amused the holy man to learn about this fruit, about it's past and how it was raised, and how it was consumed. How it tasted.

So fresh looking, and yet this fruit populated Greek mythology, Egyptian graves and Methos' own old, old memories. He had seen and tasted so many varieties. Had seen it become fashionable and go out of style, back and forth.

Current fashion expected one to drink the juice through a straw, which was purportedly the "original" way. Yeah, right. They knew nothing. The truth was, there were about 10 different ways of enjoying it, even if you counted all the cocktails as only one, and several were better than just squishing the fruit.  
The most comfortable, of course, was having a slave pick it apart. He grinned cynically. Perhaps he should mention that to Joe one day, just to see if he could annoy him. It was, however, a thing of the past. There were no more slaves. Not in HIS life.

No, right now, he wanted the fullness of its taste, untainted by the juice of spoilt parts. He would be both slave and master in this - preparing it like a slave, and enjoying it, carefree, like a master of old times. How fitting, considering he had been both, long ago.

He opened the hard skin slowly, careful not to squash the little berries inside. One by one, he eased them out mostly unharmed, filling the small plate. The table was soon strewn with berries that had gone bad or were not yet ripe, with bits of skin, and bloodied by the dark-red juice.

Eventually he threw away a big heap of useless material and cleaned the table. Then he took his little plate of perfect dark-red berries that glowed like rubies. He carried it to his nightstand and made himself comfortable on the bed. He looked around. Something was missing. Oh. Goooood idea!

Ten minutes later Methos lay in his bathtub, feeling completely and rightfully decadent, as he dropped the dark-red berries into his mouth. Ah, this was the life. This was it.  
No matter what they all said about love and faith and stuff, THIS was worth living for.


End file.
